My Eardrummeries Have Been Damaged Beyond Repair

Readertronics of the Webernet familiar with my column will likely understand that I am, in general, a sympathetic and kind man, even when it comes to the odious masses of poor people who operate my mansion and keep it -- and myself -- clean and functioning (which, now that I think about it, is a horrible paradox that I shall have to hire a mathematician to decipher at a later date). I even grant the occasional charity of allowing one of my nubile servants the opportunity to consume fragments of food that might escape my mouth or Jibsley's blasted clumsy fingers (I always tell him to give them a good soak in formaldehyde and stop playing Ball In The Basket like some villainous Afrikan Negro, but I don't believe he pays heed), completely free of charge...and that's in addition to their monthly two pence wages! But despite my kindness and attempts of varying success to refrain from explosively vomiting when the scent of their poverty-striken pores enters my nose, at least one of them is still attempting to terminate my very life!

You may recall from my previous column that I have been having trouble with one of my servants, who I believe is not only poor, but some kind of treacherous Devil Imp. I had Jibsley rig up an elaborate contraption of mirrors in an attempt to force her to see her own wretched reflection, which I believed would dissolve her in a flash of Magick and Smoke, but she seemed to be immune, and Jibsley somehow grew lost amongst the mirrors and remained there for several days, eventually believing himself to be one of hundreds of evil clones of the real Jibsley (I expended several brain cells in order to laugh at this out loud, but I still harbor an inner fear that he was right, and that the real Jibsley is dead and concealed in one of my own pantries!). When this failed, I grew exhausted of the maddening battle of wits, and settled upon bed rest for several weeks, waking occasionally to be groomed and to toss bits of dust at Jibsley for various incompetencies he committed or was considering committing (such as attempting to grow a Mustachery, like a damned Viking!).

Today, I finally emerged from my quarters in order to obtain a book from my personal library on the nature of the Human Immunodeficiency Virus (which I believe I may have contracted when one of my servants scratched his arm near my bath, causing several skin flakes to tumble into the water as I shrieked in fear), having more or less forgotten about my adversary. As I had Jibsley grab books off the shelves and pass them in front of my eyes to browse their titles, however, a sudden crunch of at least seven thousand decibels pierced the air, sending shockwaves through the room that knocked me on my very own coccyx, shattering it like a lightbulb!

"What in the name of Communist Delano Roosevelt was that?" I screamed. "Jibsley, have you been ingesting those blasted Bak-ed Beans again?"

Jibsley motioned that he had not, and then began the process of sawing his lips off with his fingernails in case he had just told me a falsehood without realizing it. While I appreciated this, I could not help but shoot a stream of bile from my eyes in terror as I saw the waves of another deafening sound sailing towards me with alarming speed!

"I must blow," I thought to myself, and began to arrange my lips in such a fashion that I could pass air through them in order to propel the sound waves away from me. My stomach acids, however, had risen in my throat and now were eating my lips away, rendering them unable to arrange themselves in any formation, except that of a poverty-striken man with Down's Syndrome.

Jibsley, meanwhile, had found a can of beans and was furiously eating them in order to produce anal gases that might stop the sound waves, but he then realized that the noxious accompanying smell would kill me just as surely as the very soundwaves he had tried to stop, and began spraying sweet-smelling roach spray into his mouth to counteract the smell!

"Help me, you ham-headed fool!" I told him, but he was of no use, now spinning himself around repeatedly on the floor with his flailing limbs and expelling considering foam out of his oral orifice, a sight so disturbing that I soon began expelling similar foam from my own mouth. Just then, the second blast hit!

"CRUNCH!" it went ferociously, and my eardrums exploded in a mass of brown fluid, and my ears themselves were thrown clear of my head and splattered against Jibsley's face, the owner of which moaned and began to try and eat them! Luckily, at that moment, my bowels exploded in a terrific boom, and I was propelled high above the room, so that I was able to see who was causing the noises: the She-Daemon! She was eating some sort of Potato Crisps in my very own personal library!

"Crisps," I croaked, plummeting back to Earth. Fortunately, Jibsley had the sense to inflate his lung sacks and remove them from his chest cavity for me to land on, which I did with a "POP" so terrific that my ear canals instantly filled with urine!

Again, the banshee summoned help instead of finishing me off, perhaps sending me a message of some kind. But what could it be? As small Robotrons work on my ears in an attempt to restore my hearing, and doctors feed me various flora and fauna to cure me of my Human Immunodeficiency Virus and gonorrhea, I will ponder this question. I can only hope that it leads me in a different direction next time, because at this rate, I shall surely perish, or worse!

Harswil Manchester III is the oldest man on the planet, and is wealthier than everyone who ever lived combined and doubled. He is working on being less kind to his hired help.